Tami Beethoven

He looked around. The room was mostly full of Tunemasters kids but also there were some grown-ups. Some important-looking guys in top hats and white gloves, maybe the Grand Marshals or something, talking to Sarge, who was in his usual bland business suit. Also some soldiers, a couple of old American Legion guys in their boy scout-style caps. Ladies' Auxiliary folks. But mostly Tunemasters. About forty of them were able to make this trip and they outnumbered the rest.

He licked his lips and looked at the soda table. Jamal's lips didn't need wetting, he was percussion, but Rod wondered what it would be like to blow into a trombone in such cold. Yes, there was that last game when it sleeted for a while, and that big parade before the Patriots game, but this parade was actually below freezing. As in, his lips might freeze to his mouthpiece! They had never marched outside in January before. It was already maybe 25 degrees and the temperature was sure to drop once it got dark. Fortunately there didn't seem to be any wind.

On the TV, two guys in ski outfits were talking in the foreground. In the background you could see people filling up behind the ropes.

He decided on soda, but it had to be clear so as not to make a stain on his uniform if it spilled. Luckily they had 7-Up. He returned his trombone to the cabinets and got a can and sipped.

He took another view of the room. The new uniforms sure made the Tunemasters look different. Before, the effect was kind of military. Now, with the luxuriant ruffles and piping, and the big new shako hats with frills that a lot of them already had put on, the effect was more like entertainment, like a big show in Las Vegas. Jaycee, Virginia, Debra, Morganna, Sid, Ty, Jacob... they all seemed to be wearing more clothes, somehow, taking up more space. And the gold piping made their raiment seem all the more abundant. It was not actually bad, he decided, just different. Hard to get used to.

He wondered about the changes to the uniform of the majorette, Brigid. He looked around for her but she was hard to find in all this finery. A - ha! Behind that clot of flute and clarinet players, all girls, he saw two bare white butt cheeks slightly sticking out in profile.

He and Brigid had a special bond, he knew, or he thought he knew, based on that on-field conversation at that last game, but it hard been hard to build on. He just couldn't screw up the courage to ask her out. Mostly he could just chat in the hall whenever he saw her between classes. It was a big high school and hard to "bump into" someone accidentally-on-purpose. And he couldn't think of anything interesting to talk about. "What's up?" He kept kicking himself for being so inane.

He took a deep breath, sipped from the can, and approached her.

As he walked up behind her he saw she was talking with Velda and Lourdes, friends of hers from the clarinet section, who were straightening out their jackets. Brigid was enthusing about the new piping, feeling the fabric in her fingers, testing the ruffles

"That's so neat, pwiddy!" she said in her "Pwovidince" accent. "They'll get a big chahge out of that!"

Rod looked down past Brigid's bare shoulders and slim, bare back, and for a second he thought she was totally naked! But no, the strings that held the thong bottom on were still there, they were just transparent now. Kind of like clear plastic, hard to see, and only what looked like an eighth of an inch wide. Also they didn't meet at a "T" like before. They curved down, well below her sacral dimples, and into her butt crack where they met. Kind of like a "V" in script. Down below, she had on her backless majorette sandals.

"Oh hi Rod!" Brigid said, turning around. He bit his lip as he saw her pretty white Irish face, the freckles and the red hair set up in braids. "You look real nice!" As she smoothed his ruffles he looked up. Her little cap had disappeared.

"Nice tiara," he said, thankful he could remember the name for that little half-crown that was now on her head. With a "T" in the middle, otherwise just a little half-circle of metal or maybe plastic, the ends going into her hair.

Brigid turned her head side to side as if modeling it.

"What's that? A headset?"

There was a little piece of it going into her ear.

"No, just a speakah so I can heah Sahge," she said, tapping it. "This way he doesn't have to mahch right next to us, he can give me directions to go fast, go slow... And how about my new 'T's?!"

His eyes widened as he looked down to her chest. The ever-shrinking circlets were now gone. In their place were black-and-white T's mounted on her nipples. They were maybe three inches high. His mouth opened in puzzlement. Behind them he could clearly see the circles of her nipples, a little below the junction of the "T". They were about the size of quarters. He had heard that white girls, their nipples were pink until the first time they went out topless in the sun. Then they turned brown and never went back. Brigid's nipples, as anyone could see, were pink, against her white skin.

Wasn't this against the public decency code? Weren't female nipples supposed to be covered? He imagined the Tunemasters majorette would know about such things. But the "powers that be" must have decided it was OK. Maybe it was just the tip of the nipple, the part that stuck out and supported these letters, that had to be covered.

"Aren't they great?" Brigid said, sticking them out slightly, proud of this change in her uniform. "The circlets were too small. This way my 'T's are more cleah." As she moved the T's danced a little.

"Do they stay on OK?" he couldn't help asking.

"Sure, they fit right on." In the middle of each letter was a little black circle, as big around as a pencil eraser, that covered the nub of her nipple. He couldn't imagine how these things felt. "Better than those horrid old clips."

"I'll say."

He noticed people forming a circle around them as Brigid explained the benefits of her new uniform.

Rod looked further down and saw that her uniform bottom, which used to be a narrow "V", was now also a "T". It was clear by now that Brigid had had to shave off every bit of her pubic hair because her lower T covered only her pussy lips and her clit, those private parts he had spied on during that last game when Brigid was being "cleaned up" under the stands by Ms. Farkas and Debra and Virginia. The T was way, way below her navel, maybe eight inches of flat lower tummy framed by the larger "V" of her hip bones. The junction of the T had to be right over where Brigid's clit lay hidden between her lower lips...

The clear plastic straps came around from the sides, crossing the lower parts of Brigid's hip bones, and met at each end of the T. The bottom of the T was almost hidden as it disappeared between her legs.

"Looks a little insecure," Marisa, who was standing behind Brigid, said of the strings in the back.

"Oh this is called a V-back," Brigid said, turning around and looking back on it to the extend she could. "It's actually more secuah than a T-back. I can move around and it stays put." Everyone looked down at the tiny transparent straps that curved into her butt crack. He couldn't help but continue to admire how tight and firm and curvy her butt was. Her white skin was beautiful and clear...

"Your sandals changed too," Brian observed.

"Yeah," Brigid said, taking one off and putting her bare foot on the tile floor, surrounded by everyone else's big ruffled boots. She held it up at the level of her cute puckered navel. "See, no heel. And it's got a tread." Indeed the sandals were now totally flat flip-flops, with straps that were as transparent as those around her hips. And the bottoms did have black treads on them, like sneakers do.

"Snow flip-flops," someone said. Everyone laughed, including Brigid. "Yeah, like tires," she said. "It was eithah that, or chains," she said. More giggling.

As Brigid put the flip-flop back on, Rod looked down and told himself: Brigid's entire foot is now exposed. He regarded again the T covering her pussy lips, and the tiny bit of coverage afforded by the T's on her breasts.

He held up the pinky on his gloved hand and told himself: now she's down to less than this. My pinky has more coverage than Brigid's entire body does!

This little chitchat was interrupted by Sarge, who was followed by one of the men in top hats, a white guy with a beard about 55 years old, with a ribbon across his ruffled tuxedo-like jacket. "Tunemasters, this is the mayor, Mr. Richfield, who's grand marshaling this parade. Mr. Richfield, we're all proud of them, the Tunemasters!"

Rod and the others said a variation of "good to meet you", the standard greeting they had been trained to say. Comportment off the march was very important, especially since the Killington resort was donating a big wad of cash to the school for this appearance. Mr. Richfield said a few words about how he was glad to have them here, how he'd heard about them even up here in the Green Mountains, etc., etc. Then he said,"It's traditional for a photo of some of the visiting band members to be taken before the parade. I'd like a couple of you to stand outside with me for a moment. We've got to hurry -- it's almost getting dark."

Sarge said, "Well one of them has to be our majorette, the other -- Jared? Get your things."

By that he meant: Brigid, get your baton, and Jared, get your cymbals. In a moment both were hustling to the foyer and then outside, along with Sarge. The rest stayed inside and watched through the big foyer window, through which they could see the marching route.

The photographer, bundled up in his scarf and coat and gloves and ski cap, was waiting out there for them. The snow was a little golden now, with the last rays of sunshine. As Rod and the rest of the Tunemasters watched, Jamal and Brigid stood on either side of Mayor Richfield and smiled, trying not to squint as they faced the setting sun. Jamal, with his cymbals posed in front of him as if about to crash, Brigid, with her baton primly placed up against her left shoulder, next to the Mayor. Down below, a few grains of snow had dusted up on Brigid's bare toes. Her body was flushed from top to bottom in the invigorating cold.

The Mayor's white glove rested on Brigid's bare right shoulder. Rod thought: how does a middle-aged guy feel resting a hand on the majorette, getting to feel her bare skin, if only through his glove? Didn't he really wish he was cupping her ass? He smirked at the thought.

"Come on, Mr. Watson," the Mayor said, beckoning for Sarge to get into the photo. Sarge modestly refused, but the Tunemasters, shouting through the glass, egged him on. Finally he shrugged and took his place next to Jamal as the band inside cheered.

Smiles stayed frozen on their faces as the photographer fiddled with his camera. A minute went by. Finally the Mayor took his hand off Brigid's shoulder and shook off the cold that was penetrating him even through his suit and gloves and heavy boots. One might think that someone who lived up here would be more temperature resistant. "Something wrong, Fred?" he finally said.

"The contrast with the girl, she's too white, she blends with the snow," he mumbled. At his suggestion there was some shifting around. Breaths condensed in the cold air as Brigid got a little more flushed. Maybe her increasing redness made the contrast better. Another minute later, the flash went off. A second flash, and now Brigid and Jamal and Sarge ran in to the foyer.

They all got back to the big "ready room" and Rod sat down and sipped his soda. Jared sat next to him and they talked about basketball, how the Celtics were doing this year. On the TV, it was amazing how dark it got right away. The two guys in ski outfits were still talking. The sound was too low to hear what they were saying.

He turned around, sensing Brigid near him. And found himself staring eye-level with Brigid's crotch only a foot away.

Part 56

Rod turned from where he was sitting and found himself eye- to-eye with the majorette's crotch, hardly a foot away.

She was standing and sipping soda, with Virginia and Debra, her fully uniformed friends, on each side of her, looking out to the gathering crowd on the snow-packed parade route. She wasn't aware of his gaze.

His close-in view allowed him to fully enjoy her smooth white skin, from her flat tummy with its cute navel down to her thighs. The only interruption from total nakedness was the thin clear string that journeyed from both sides across her hips, crossing the lower parts of the big "V" of her delicate hip bones, crossing the smaller "V" of her pubic mound, meeting in that little black-and-white "T" that hugged and partly bit into her pubic lips. She must have taken a lot of care shaving down there. Not a hint of stubble, no trace of the pubic hairs that he now knew were as red as the hairs on her head.

The little "T" was as skinny as his pinky and the top was only half an inch wide. It looked ridiculously tiny on her. Thin as she was, it made her hips look wide as the clear strings journeyed their way across them, like trekking across an endless desert toward the tiny oasis of covering that was the "T". She looked like a 50-foot woman who had stretched on a normal size thong.

And the stem of the "T" was so thin that it bit into her lips, actually separating them, as it disappeared between her legs. From his close view he could see the little streak of gold running down the middle of the "T", within the black that was in turn framed within the tiny white border. So here was the gold that matched the gold piping on everyone else's uniforms, though shrunk down to almost microscopic dimensions on the micro-uniform that the majorette had to wear.

"Micro-uniform." That was a good name for it. Brigid could hardly be said to be wearing anything, yet she stood straight up and poised and clearly proud of what was on her. He wondered what the scene was like in her house on game days. For his part, he would shower, get into his thermals, then his momma would have his uniform laid out on his bed, shirt next to jacket, then pants, then his socks, with his boots on the floor. And Brigid? He imagined her walking to her room totally naked, to find the tiny circlets and V-botton carefully arranged, tiny bits against the expanse of bedsheets, which would take only a few seconds to tie on. Then slipping on the flip-flops, and prancing out to get her baton.

Examining her crotch again, he saw the fleshiness of the white-skinned lower lips, sloping down from each side of the "T". Including the crease at the beginnings of her legs, it looked like the letter "W", though with soft bottoms. A little "w" in script, maybe.

He quickly turned around, thinking Brigid might be seeing him look at her crotch. She was used to being looked at, of course, but it wouldn't be cool to stare so directly. He sipped his soda and, looking back, was relieved to see she was still looking outside.

There was a big, flashy scene that was developing out there. The place seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, judging from that long bus ride, so where did all these people come from? it was a little city carnival. Music was piped in, food was being sold from booths, people milling around waiting for the start of festivities.

His mind wandered and he thought of those dreams he had been having. It had been three or four times now. He was older and had a girlfriend, or maybe it was a wife. Her name was Tami and she was red-haired and white and she was always naked. Like a natural forest woman, kissing him and then scampering away through the forest, her tough bare feet hopping from rock to log to branch, light as a feather, then in no time disappearing from sight. These dreams were clearly inspired by Brigid, especially that last one where this Tami lady was wearing this little string thing in her crotch and seemed to be as proud and glad of this covering as Brigid was with her micro-thong.

Now Brigid sat on the bench a few feet down from him, saying hi but then chatting with Debra, who sat down on the far side. He watched as they talked about their favorite TV shows, Brigid with her legs crossed dangling the flip-flop from the ends of her toes. You never saw bare toes in January, except with the Tunemasters majorette of course.

Her breasts must have gotten bigger. It sure seemed so, as he saw them in profile, sticking out from her rib cage more than before, jiggling slightly with the motions of her leg. Well, most girls her age were still developing. He saw the pink circles of her nipples in profile -- they were called areoles, something like that?

First the circlets, then the smaller circlets, now these suspended T's -- it seemed like the uniform was gradually leaping off the fronts of Brigid's breasts. Now only the very tip of her nipple, was covered, in that tiny half-inch tube that supported the "T"'s which had no other point of contact with her. They didn't pull down her breasts at all. They looked to be hollow plastic and almost weightless. They jiggled a little too, with every little motion.

"Ready to get -- Frigid -- Brigid?" a wise guy cracked as he passed by. Brigid began to turn but changed her mind and kept talking about soap operas.

"Icy titties," another boy said as he passed by. Brigid made a quick sign of "f**k you" with her lips but kept talking.

Now a stray comment from some distance away. "Popsicle toes!"

Brigid ignored him, though it seemed like the skin around her collarbones flushed a bit as if in anger. She was used to the occasional jerky comment. It never rattled her. The way some boys acted, it didn't make him proud. Sometimes he wished she would jump up and say, "Hey in a few minutes I'll be freezing my tits off for you idiots! Just shut the f**k up!" Or thrusting her breasts in some boy's face and saying, "Go ahead keep talking. Just know you will never... EVER... get to touch these!!" It would serve him right. But that just wouldn't be Brigid. To be the Tunemasters majorette was a big responsibility and she handled it like a real pro.

He briefly wondered what it would be like if it was him. That is, a drum major, who had to wear just a tiny jockstrap-;ike thing. He'd die of embarrassment. Kind of like if Brigid, standing at attention in front of the formation of full-uniformed Tunemasters, was nervously clutching the baton in front of her and saying, "P - please, Sarge... C - could I be allowed to wear more -- clothes? Please??"

His increasingly weird musings were interrupted by Sarge's loud bark. "Attention, troops!" Like what he must have said hundreds of times in the Army. Rod and Brigid and Debra and the others got up, as Sarge addressed them, Brigid as usual by his side.

"First question, how is that thermal underwear working out? Anyone feeling hot?"

A murmur of approval. Brigid, crossing her arms, one foot turned to the side, looked on.

"Good. Believe me, it's a new fabric and it's wonderful. Developed for the Army, or by the Army, I understand. No surprise here," he said with a smile. "You wouldn't get the Navy latching on to something that good... Now, it's a packed snow route, as you can see, and real cold. Out of consideration for the band, I've asked that the route be short. We'll be marching only about 300 yards. We'll be outside no more than ten or fifteen minutes. After that, you can come back here and change, or you can mingle. Be back by nine o'clock though."

Rod knew that the reference to "consideration for the band" was really "consideration for our majorette who has to march practically naked". But Brigid would not want any mention of special treatment. A pro.

"We'll be doing 'National Emblem', 'Little Giant' and 'Winter Wonderland', which is the obvious choice. Remember the double tonguing on the intro to 'Wonderland'. I know it's a new tune for you but I know you'll do fine.